


too close to the flame

by hesperia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, F/M, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Spanking, Spies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-23 09:18:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/924625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hesperia/pseuds/hesperia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His dark hair is cut short and he is wearing sunglasses, but she could recognize him anywhere. The curve of his shoulder, the span of his back, the veins in his arm that move each time he brings the tea cup up to his mouth for another sip. And his mouth, Arya could recognize that mouth in the dark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	too close to the flame

**Author's Note:**

  * For [honey_wheeler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/gifts), [lit_chick08](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lit_chick08/gifts), [xylodemon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylodemon/gifts).



Arya hates Morocco, or more accurately she hates how fucking hot it is in Morocco. She misses the cold, wet rain of England, fresh in her lungs and on her cheeks. She feels suffocated here, and the white silk blouse she's wearing under her suit jacket isn't helping the situation either. She's been in Morocco for six weeks now, sending intel back to MI6 on their latest target, Daario Naharis, a man with an American education and suspected ties to the once defunct Targaryen crime family. 

But it is not him that makes her stop short when she sees a man sitting not a hundred feet from her. His dark hair is cut short and he is wearing sunglasses, but she could recognize him anywhere. The curve of his shoulder, the span of his back, the veins in his arm that move each time he brings the tea cup up to his mouth for another sip. And his mouth, Arya could recognize that mouth in the dark. 

She slips her own glasses down onto her face, her purse in hand as she walks over and sits down next to him.

"That took almost 45 minutes," he says, not looking up from his paper to look at her. "You're getting sloppy, Stark." He looks up then, one side of his mouth quirking into a smile. 

"What are you doing in Morocco, Waters?"

"That's classified." Gendry says, grinning because he knows it annoys her. Arya had forgotten how much she had likes the curve of his smile. But she's not going to let it get to her, not this time.

"Stay the fuck away from Naharisl, he is mine. I've been here for six weeks, I'm close to getting in, to getting the information I need." 

"MI6 isn't the only agency interested in Naharis, Arya," he says, folding the paper and tucking it under the iPad sitting on the table in front of him. 

Arya's jaw clenches almost involuntarily at the sound of her name on his lips; she never was very good at holding her emotions in check when it came to Gendry Waters, despite how hard she tried. "Any chance I can convince you not to attend the benefit tonight?" 

"And miss you in a Versace? Hardly." 

Something breaks then, and Arya's not sure if its a sudden flash of memories in his mind but Gendry's eyes soften, and he reaches out to run his thumb along her cheek and down to the corner of her mouth.

"I've missed you." 

"Don't..." Arya says, pulling away from his touch and standing up, even though every ounce of her body is screaming _stay_ and craving for his touch. "Stay the fuck away from Naharis, or the CIA is going to wish they never sent you here."

She doesn't look back as she's walking away but she can feel his eyes on her until she turns the corner. She hails a taxi to her hotel, spends the entire ride tapping her fingers nervously on the edge of the window. She strips down in her hotel room, lays naked on the bed with the fan she'd requested earlier pointing right at her. Later, she spends way more time getting ready then she ever does for anything else. The bathtub is large and deep and she soaks in it for three quarters of an hour, until the pads of her fingers are wrinkled. A far cry from her usual perfunctory shower. 

The dress is simple but elegant, strapless and floor length. And of course Gendry was right, it was Versace, though it irks her that he knows her that well - that she has a secret penchant for expensive gowns. It hugs her curves, but flares at her hips just enough that no one will notice the gun strapped to her thigh. No one except him. Her hair she pulls into a chignon, low near the base of her neck, and Arya growls at the slight tremble in the pit of her stomach that might be excitement but that she'll defend to her death is annoyance. She doesn't want to feel anxious tonight, she wants to be calm and collected, she wants to be overly observant and able to do her damn job. She's never been able to do any of that very well with Gendry around. Not even when she was a teenager and he'd come to stay with his father at the Embassy in Scotland. 

The American Embassy is overflowing with guests and Arya slips in easily without notice. Once inside she grabs a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and no one would even take a second thought to wonder if she's part of this crowd. She's already scanned the room twice for Naharis when she feels a warm, sturdy hand slide along the exposed skin of her lower back. Gendry's body is solid against her side and she turns her face to his, pressing the slightest hint of a kiss to his cheek. They have to blend in here, they have to look like old acquaintances, maybe lovers - it's easier to stay under the radar when you're snuggled up to someone then if you're elbow-dropping them in your evening gown. 

"You look stunning in that dress," Gendry says, his mouth against her ear, his breath hot, he hasn't shaved either and the rasp of it pricks at her skin. 

"I know," she says, a bit more haughtily than she means. "That's why I wore it." 

"It reminds me of the one you wore that night in Moscow," he says as they walk around the room, their arms brushing against one another only occasionally. 

She doesn't reply, and she hates that he's brought it up. He'd been working with MI6 then, a joint mission with the CIA had brought them together in Russia, and they had spent one very long cold winter in Moscow undercover as married professors for the University. It had been her first undercover operation, not his though, and that had been half the reason the old man had said yes.

Inevitably what had started as a fake relationship had quickly become something more, something they had been specifically warned not to do - develop feelings for each other. The operation had ended badly, another MI6 agent had been killed, and a day after their debrief at MI6 headquarters Gendry was gone, sent back to Langley, back to the United States, and back to the life and, to Arya's surprise, the fiancée he had left behind. 

"How's Willow?" 

"She left me, went back to Canada - but you knew that already." 

"Did I?" Arya asks, turning to look over her shoulder, scanning the room once more for Daario Naharis. When she turns back Gendry is gone, already across the room to take his seat at another table. The benefit drags on, and Arya tries to pace herself on the champagne but its clear now that Naharis isn't going to show up and this whole evening has been a bust. 

After dinner the band takes up their instruments again and the reception begins. Arya wanders out of the ballroom, into the gardens. It's cooler at night in Tangiers, and Arya's thankful for the cool breeze on her bare back as she sits on a stone bench. She can still feel the heat from where Gendry's hand had rested. The old man will expect a report back in the morning and already Arya is dreading the call. She knows Naharis is a no show because of Gendry's arrival - she's sure of it. And if Naharis has gone to ground there's no way to know when, if ever, he'll turn up. Plus, now she'll have to tell the old man that she saw Gendry.

"You're mad," Gendry says, and she looks up to see him leaning against the open doorway. "I can tell because your jaw crooks to the side about half a degree when you're angry."

"He's not here because you fucking scared him off! Of course I'm bloody angry!" 

"Let me make it up to you," Gendry says, his hands in his pockets as he walks over to stand in front of her. He looks gorgeous tonight, his tuxedo perfectly pressed, his hair just wild enough and his collar undone to give him that rich playboy look. She'd forgotten how good he looked in a suit, like he was born to wear one, even though she knew he was always more comfortable in jeans and a tshirt.

"Do you have Daario Naharis in your pocket?"

"Come back to my hotel." 

"Because the only way you can make it up to me is if you hand him over."

"I want to put my mouth on your cunt."

"Jesus Christ, Gendry," Arya shudders, and her face fills with heat as she looks away from him. She can't meet his eyes, not now, not when she knows the moment she does it will be her undoing. She chews anxiously on her bottom lip, trying to push away the images of his head between her thighs, to forget the muscle memory of her reaction to his touch.

"Tell me you don't think about, that there isn't a part of you that wants it so badly your cunt aches for it. Tell me and I'll leave. You'll never see me again."

Arya's head is foggy and she wishes she'd stopped at two glasses of champagne, because then she could think clearer, she could find it easier to form the words to say no, to make him leave. Except she says "I can't," and then he's kissing her, full and deep on the mouth, the heady taste of whiskey on his tongue as he slips it into her mouth. 

From the embassy it is a quick taxi to Gendry's hotel, the whole ride spent with his mouth on her neck and his hand solid on her leg, his thumb stroking the skin at the crease of her thigh. And in the elevator, when Gendry drops to his knees and starts pushing her dress up her legs, high enough that he can fit his mouth over her cunt, press his lips against the thin black lace of her thong and trace the outline of her sex with his tongue, Arya allows herself to forget that she's angry at him, that he's not working for her. Though he's certainly not working against her either.

She drops her hand to the back of his head, fingers sinking into his soft black hair as her hand curves around the shape of him, holding him there against her.

Her panties are soaked now, from his mouth and her own desire, and Gendry begins to drag them down her thighs as the bell rings at his floor. They fall out of the elevator, Gendry's hand on Arya's back as he leads her down the hall, her wet panties curled in his other hand. 

Once inside the room Arya drops to her knees in front of him, a thrill of pleasure arching up her spine at the way Gendry groans even though she hasn't yet put her mouth on him. He is quick with his trousers, pulling his cock out, already hard and straining, glistening at the tip. Arya takes her time, licking along his shaft, down to his balls and back up before swirling her tongue around the head and slipping her mouth down over him. 

"Fuck, Arya," Gendry groans, his breath coming in jagged bursts of air. "God that mouth..." He reaches down to sink his fingers into her hair, guiding her mouth up and down his cock. She knows he likes this, being able to guide her mouth where he wants it. She takes him to the back of her mouth, her cheeks hollowing as she sucks him. There's something comforting about knowing just how to touch him, knowing exactly how much pressure he likes, how he likes slow deep strokes until he is almost at the peak of his orgasm, and then faster until he spends his release in her mouth. He doesn't let her finish him off this time though, pulling out of her mouth with a soft pop. 

"Get on the sofa," he growls, pulling off his jacket. "Pulls up your dress to your waist, kneels on the cushions with your ass in the air and your arms on the back of the sofa." 

With anyone else Arya would fight him, would tell them to fuck right off if they thought they could just demand things from her. But with Gendry, she doesn't think twice to scrambled up from her position on the floor and make her way to the sofa. Her nipples are tight now, aching to be touched and she palms one of her breasts to try and relieve the maddening ache.

"Still as responsive as ever," Gendry says, as he walks over to where she is bent over the couch. He's still wearing his pants, his cock bobbing as he comes toward her, but he's shirtless now and Arya can see the tattoos that cover his arms and chest. It reminds her of those nights in Moscow, when they'd lie together and she would trace her fingers over them. 

The heat of Gendry's hand smoothing over the swell of her ass brings Arya back to the present and she arches her back, pressing back against his touch. He continues to caress her, stroking her skin with a light, teasing touch, running his fingers down over the cleft of her ass and to her mound where she's impossibly wet, slipping his fingers along her just to see how much before he retreats and slides his hand back up to her ass. 

The first crack of his palm against her ass blooms hot with surprise and Arya keens into it. She can hear Gendry make a soft noise of approval. The second swat comes the same as the first, and she knows he's testing her tolerance. She finds it frustrating and endearing in the same moment. 

"You want it harder don't you, Arya?" 

She nods, licking her lips as she finds her voice. "Yes, _please._ "

The next five come swiftly, one after the other, hard enough that one the final one Arya cries out, the stinging pain of his hand pushing her over the edge. The pain blossoming into urgent, heady need. 

"Such a good girl," Gendry says, his voice is rough and Arya bites her lip to keep from making any more noise as Gendry runs his hand gently over her ass, soothing her pink skin. 

He steps closer, the head of his cock pressing at her cunt as he bends over her to kiss the nape of her neck, and shoulders. He slides his hand into her hair to turn her face towards him as he captures her mouth and thrusts into her. Arya moans loudly into his mouth, his invasion is too much and not enough, stretching her around him and yet staying utterly still. 

"Please, _Gendry_ ," Arya pleads, and she tries to rock her hips against him, needs to feel him move inside her, but the hand on her hip holds her tight to him. 

"You always were an impatient little thing," he says, his mouth travelling up to her ear. "I should stay like this and see how long you can wait it out." But he's grinning, and he does not leave her waiting any longer. 

He fucks her hard, with deep strokes that almost hurt in their urgency but this is what she wants, what she needs, and Gendry has always been the only one to ever understand that. To take what she gives and own it, to take the control and responsibility that sometimes feels like an insurmountable weight on her shoulders and turn it into pleasure that Arya has yet to find with anyone other than him.

When he stops, suddenly, Arya growls in frustration, her orgasm teetering so close to the edge she can feel it in every nerve in her body. "I want to see you," he says, pulling out of her. "Turn over." 

She's unsteady as she lowers herself to the sofa, and he helps her, his hand behind her neck. "God you're so beautiful," he murmurs, touching her chin with a finger. "Let me see you." 

She fumbles with the fastenings of the dress, but she gets them undone and he pulls it down her body, the silk swishing against the sofa as it leaves her bare before him. He makes quick work of his trousers, stepping out of them before moving to join her on the sofa. Kneeling between her thighs, he runs his hands along them, watching her, seeing her. 

"I missed you," she admits, looking at him. 

"I missed you too." He leans down, covering her with his body as he pushes into her. 

Her leg wraps easily over his hip, allowing him deeper, closer. His free hand slips over her body, cupping one of her breasts, his thumb rubbing over the sensitive hardened tip of her nipple. Arya whimpers and her eyes close, savouring the pleasure that flicks along her spine.

"Look at me, Arya," Gendry says, as her body tightens around him, her fingers curling around his arms. 

She forces her eyes open, finding his above her. "Gendry..."

"Not yet, Arya. You can hold it."

"I can't," Arya whispers, every muscle in her body fighting the urge to let go. 

"You will," he grits through his teeth, his thrusts coming faster now, harder and less refined. "You know it's worth it."

Arya moans, her hands scrambling for purchase on his skin, frustration and need overwhelming her. "Oh God."

"You're such a good girl, so fucking gorgeous like this under me. Your sweet little cunt so tight around me."

It's his voice that sends her over the edge, her orgasm finally coming hard and fast and she cries out, her whole body pulsing and squeezing. She's barely coherent now, but she feels Gendry thrust hard and still with a groan as he spends inside her, filling her. 

He rests his head against her collarbone, his breath hot against her skin. They don't speak, Arya's not sure she could find her voice even if she had to, but they breathe together, their cheats rising and falling in a steady rhythm together. Slowly Gendry flips them, Arya's body now lying prone over his, her head against his chest while he buries his face in the top of her head, inhaling her scent. 

"Oh, sweet girl," Gendry says, with a sigh. "You're so bad for business."

Arya smiles against his skin, and slowly lifts her head to look up at him. "You're not exactly protocol yourself," she responds, and for a moment Gendry looks at her, unnervingly, and then he grins.


End file.
